We’ll discuss a few things on Monday…
Don’t kill me.
They’re watching you.
Jeff Johnson was here last night, or was it the night before? I’m losing track of time. I’m losing everything. Maybe I’m even losing my damn mind.
Did Jeff creep into my room as I slept? There’s a water bottle on my bedside table. Did he spike it? Is he trying to kill me? Are there cameras in my bloody bedroom? It’s too much. All of it.
Reaper meows louder.Get yourself together, woman.
Slowly, I raise my head. Reaper bounds up the stairs and sits at the top, swishing his tail, waiting. I surge forward without stopping. We reach my bedroom at the same time and hover outside it, peering in.
My room looks unchanged since I left it. The bed is messy, pillows everywhere, even the floor. My water bottle sits harmlessly on my bedside table. Everything looks normal, but now it all feels so threatening.
They’re watching you.
I step inside, my entire body trembling. Reaper jumps noiselessly onto my bed. I stand very still, looking up at the wallpaper. At the eerie forest. The blackbirds stare back with their hollow eye sockets.
They’re watching…
With a cry, I lunge forward, throwing myself at the damn wallpaper and those bloody blackbirds. I tear at one with my fingernails, scratching at the wall, feeling for anything that shouldn’t be there. Like a secret camera that’s been watching me all along. I poke my finger into their eye sockets until my nail bends all the way back and cracks in half, and even that’s not enough. Panting, I run from wall to wall, tearing and scratching at the blackbirds with clawed hands. Reaper meows, drops to the floor, and spins in a frenzied circle. I’m scaring him, and I can’t stop. Can’t stop. I tear at the blackbirds until all my fingers bleed.
—
I gulp the rest of my wine, and watch the roaring flames in the fireplace. The house is unnervingly silent, and outside, a quiet electrical storm rages on and on. The air feels charged. I’m so jumpy that when Reaper sprang onto the couch beside me, I screamed. He fled under the couch, fur all puffed out, teeth bared at me and maybe the storm too.
We’re all on edge tonight.
My fingers are throbbing, the nails all broken down to the quick. Ifound nothing in the wallpaper. No cameras. No listening devices. Nothing.
I reach painfully for my laptop and google Jeff Johnson’s cousin. The cleaner who quit shortly after starting work at Mercy Community. Chris. That’s what Benita said his name was. It doesn’t take long to find him.
I peer at his Facebook photo, and the hairs on my arms stand up. Mid-twenties, smug eyes, black cap on sideways. That’s him. Chris Macon Johnson. I stare uneasily at his Facebook banner, a quote written in dripping red ink.The violent take it by force.
I pour another glass with an unsteady hand and sip it, staring at Chris Johnson’s face. He lasted three days at Mercy before he quit. But he made damn sure to get into my office, even unlocking the door while I was sleeping. I grip the stem of the glass. I bet the only reason he started working at Mercy was to get dirt on me. That’s why he wouldn’t answer when I asked his name.
Watta’s it matter what me name is?
I typeChris Macon Johnson+Beaconinto Google, my fingers fumbling over the keys. I’m a bit drunk. More hits. A Twitter account. Same profile photo as Facebook but a different banner this time.Born with Horns.
I click on Facebook again and scan the About section to see if there’s a phone number listed. And there it is. I hesitate before pulling my phone out of my pocket, chewing my lip. So what if I ring him? What can he do?
I type in his number and stop breathing when it rings. I fumble with the wine bottle, pouring it into the glass with my shaking right hand. I’ve filled the glass almost to the top when someone answers.
“Yo, who dis?”
I almost drop the bottle. I press the phone to my ear. In the background is thumping music and laughter. “Another round, boys?” someone calls out. I wonder if he’s down at the Beacon pub, the bastard.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Hi, it’s…”
My mind blanks. Shit. What’s my name again? Sarah Slade?
“Who?” He has to yell it over the music.
“You worked at Mercy Community?” He doesn’t answer. I swallow hard. “I work there. I’m one of the therapists. Sarah Slade.”
More laughter in the background. The beat is constant.Boom boom, pop. Boom boom, pop.
